Peace On Middle-Earth
by EnduranceInHope
Summary: Christmas might not be an official holiday in Middle-Earth, but the things that make the holiday special are in great abundance! The whole Fellowship takes turns experiancing the spirit of Christmas. Ten one-shots going through Christmas Eve. Annual Christmas collaboration with ModernDayBard.
1. Gandalf the Giver

_**It's time again for ModernDayBard and I's annual Christmas collaboration! We hope that you enjoy our ten days of one-shots leading up to Christmas Eve. Blessings- Endurance**_

 **Hello, everybody; ModernDayBard here! As 2018 was the 'Year of Lord of the Rings', for me, I suppose it's only fitting that the Christmas collab finds its home in Middle Earth. It'll be a little different from our normal format, but hopefully you all still enjoy!**

 **DISCLAIMER: Neither of us owns any of the characters, settings, lore, or cannon events.**

What could be offered—what could be accepted—to compel someone to leave incorporeal, timeless paradise, take on a mortal form and walk amongst the free (but often foolish) peoples of Middle Earth for a lifetime of lifetimes? To leave so much of their power and eventually knowledge to attempt to guide those who so often spat in their faces and did the opposite out of spite? To be belittled at times by those he was so far beyond, and by those he was supposed to walk beside?

Yes, there were lonely centuries, and tragic ones as great realms and kings fell to ruin and what remained of their peoples scrambled for survival among scraps and fallen stones. But while many would turn from the world of men, isolate themselves to spare themselves further pain, he did not. He remembered his task always, though many things he once knew were forgotten.

But more than that, and despite both knowing and remembering how death always took those dear to him, eventually, he did not shy away from those he would call 'friends'—even those others of the wise would dismiss, such as his beloved hobbits. Simple folk, though they were, yet Bilbo, Frodo, and their young companions stood as testaments to what such an oft-overlooked people were capable of. He loved them as much for their simplicity and innocence as for the courage and remarkable feats they could be pressed to show.

The dwarves were stubborn, too, and hard to dissuade from any path, even one that led to their ruin, but a stauncher friend, once won, you could hardly ask for. And to trace their history, to see how far they had fallen as a people and now, to see them reclaim old homes, rediscover old skills, and renew old alliances could only stand as testament to the sometime-rewards of stubbornness, and its better side.

In elves alone could he find friends who would not fall to the Doom of Man, though now many were sailing and leaving him behind in other ways. With them, he could speak openly and honestly, take council deep and true, and speak of things old and ancient in the same breath of those now and new.

And men… so weakened, so lessened from their time of power and prosperity, so often beguiled, led astray, or simply festering away within with no outside force leading them astray. But strength and greatness, nobility, and even simple goodness and contentment could still be found in their hearts, as well. Yes, men were capable of extremes to either end, so neither could be forgotten, but they were not as far gone as so many of the wise despairingly believed, even in this far-fallen state.

Yes, he had found much to love about the peoples he guided and protected, as his tale unfolded over the wary years. But now, it seemed, it had come to an end: the last great push to defeat Sauron had been started, not by an army, but by a Fellowship. He'd guided them as well and long as he could, and stayed to fight what they could not so that the Ring-Bearer and his companions may escape the mines of Moria alive.

And he had felled the Balrog, in the end, though it cost him the last of his life and power to do so. Now his task passed to the Fellowship that remained: see Frodo to Mordor, or as close as they can, and cast the Ring of Power into the flames, unmake it and banish its maker. He could do no more.

Or so he thought…

What could compel anyone to give up timeless paradise once is unthinkable, but to do it twice, knowing the second time, what difficulty, pain, and sorrow, lay yet ahead, with only the faintest sliver of hope for triumph?

How great a love, how great a gift: himself.

And that, he freely gave.

 **So, yeah. When Endurance and I were brainstorming this series, we figured it would be a little less-than-Christmas-y, especially compared to other collabs we've done. Yet writing that first paragraph alone was very much an 'oh, never mind, this still hits thematically right on to Christmas' sort of moment for me.**

 **Future chapters will be more story-form, I just find Gandalf hard to right for, and this character/prompt combination just seemed to call for this more overview/musing approach.**

 **Hopefully, you enjoyed it, and look for Endurance's next chapter tomorrow!**

 **While these aren't song-fics, we did want to keep up the tradition of song recommendations at the end of each chapter, so:**

 **Song: Christmas Makes Me Cry**

 **Artist: Mandisa ft. Matthew West**


	2. Meriadoc's Hope

**Hi Everyone! Here is part two of our Christmas one-shot series. We're focusing on Merry this time around and the theme of Hope.**

 **I don't have a single song to recommend today, but rather two albums. Joel Clarkson's Midwinter Carols and Midwinter Carols, vol. 2 are amazing instrumental albums to listen to at any time during this season.**

 **We hope you enjoy!**

Growing up in The Shire, Merry never really had to think about having hope. Sure, he understood the concept of hope. The young Brandybuck often listened to Mr. Bilbo's stories and heard of the trials that he and his dwarf friends underwent, therefore he oft heard Mr. Bilbo try to impart the role that having hope played in the company's success. But in the warmth of Brandy Hall the younger hobbit had no worries. And Merry always felt that as long as The Shire endured, there would be no need to grasp for hope.

But then came Mr. Bilbo's sudden departure and then Frodo's need to journey beyond the Shire's borders. Merry had never had so many brushes with danger before. But it wasn't until Weathertop and Frodo's stabbing that he recognized true fear. But there was one other hobbit younger than him. So, he pushed the fear down, like pushing a stubborn cork back into a bottle and turned to reassure his cousin.

"It will all be okay, Strider knows what to do."

"Frodo will be fine Pippin. Those elvish horses look mighty fast to me."

Hope, even then was easy to hold on to. And throughout the rough travels, the loss of comrades, and the horror of being kidnapped by uruk-hai, Merry was always able to make enough sense of a situation to not despair. But what does a young hobbit do when separate from all his friends and those he sought to give hope to?

The night before the Battle of Pelennor Fields was, by far, the longest night in young Merry's life. There was naught that could be done but to wait for the signal from Théoden to move out. But while his mind was often his best tool, Merry was having a hard time not giving in to the despair of thinking about the worst outcomes. But there, in that moment, he remembered Mr. Bilbo's stories. The stories of darkness and overwhelming odds and how there was no one but a few dwarfs, men, and elves to face it. In the middle of the worst night he would ever go through, Merry remembered. And he figured, if a few groups of free folk could defeat a dragon and an orc army, how much more could all the forces that the Fellowship had at work defeat Sauron? There and then Merry finally understood hope. Hope is not always a rational thing. In reality, the odds that the men of Rohan and Gondor were facing were much more severe than Mr. Bilbo could have dreamed of seeing. But the will to live and see good prevail was a strong motivator. And so Merry, despite all the odds against him, held on to hope that all would be right again in the world.


	3. Wonder-filled Sam

**Hello, everybody; ModernDayBard here! I hope you're liking the story so far, and that this and future chapters also delight!**

 **DISCLAIMER: Neither of us owns any of the characters, settings, lore, or cannon events.**

Master Samwise Gamgee was a hobbit's hobbit, a simple soul, and a gardener without peer.

But none of that had really prepared him for what the world was like outside of the Shire—or even the part of the Shire that he knew. But Gandalf had to go with Mr. Frodo, and so go with Mr. Frodo Sam would, however out of his depth it took him.

And, just maybe, some of that new stuff wouldn't be all that bad.

Worried as he was about Mr. Frodo waking up form that stab wound, Sam hadn't taken much time to really look around Rivendell since they'd arrived. There'd be time after Mr. Frodo got better and before they went home, after all. And surely Mr. Frodo would want to see the place his uncle had told him so much about—with the old hobbit himself as a guide.

And he did, and they did, but no one can see all of Rivendell in a single afternoon's walk, particularly when limited by how far the newly recovered can walk. It seemed that, no matter how many times they walked the same path, in the days to come, that every time Sam walked with Mr. Frodo (to help him get his strength back up), he saw something new that he had to point out to the other hobbit, breathless with the excitement and beauty of that building, or that tree, or this hidden passageway they'd never seen before.

Mr. Frodo would smile, and Mr. Bilbo (if he were with them) would chuckle, and though Sam longed for home more every day, it seemed this weren't such a bad place for Mr. Frodo to recover in the meantime.

 **[Line Break]**

Of course, Sam had hoped for a quick return to the Shire not a few days before, but if Mr. Frodo was going on, then Sam was going with him. Elrond may have told them not to swear any oaths, since they didn't know how far they would or could go with the ring-bearer, but Sam had already promised:

' _Don't you lose him, Samwise Gamgee.' And I don't mean to._

The journey was not too unpleasant at first: sure, winter was coming faster and faster each day, but the weather wasn't too bitter, yet, and the traveling was easier than before with all the newcomers (and he could hardly believe that they were traveling with an elf! An actual elf walking with them?), and with Gandalf leading, it felt like there was hardly anything that could really go wrong.

Sam was pulled from these thoughts as he crested the hill that the Fellowship had been tramping up for nearly the last hour and could see, laid out behind and before them, a countryside and land so much bigger than he'd ever imagined, or even thought possible in the shire.

Mr. Frodo came up beside him them. "Doing alright, Sam?" he asked quietly, misinterpreting the other hobbit's pause.

"Isn't it just grand, Mr. Frodo? Long walks and cold nights, I know, and a long ways to go before we can even see where we're headed, but still: grand." Sam ended his explanation with a wave that encompassed the whole vista, and turned back to see an odd smile on Mr. Frodo's face.

Before he could ask the other hobbit what was wrong, Frodo clapped him on the shoulder. "It certainly is, Samwise Gamgee, when we remember to look at it." With that, the ring bearer began to carefully pick his way down the hill after the others. Nodding solemnly, and looking back to see how the pony he was leading fared, Samwise followed.

Sam would always follow Mr. Frodo.

Sam had nearly drowned, Mr. Frodo had nearly left without him, the rest of their friends wouldn't be coming, the countryside around them was bleak, they now had to ration their food, and they were closer to Mordor than they ever wanted to be, but not near so close as they needed to go, before the end. But Sam had kept his promise and stayed, and now Mr. Frodo seemed to realize that he was coming all the way to the end, so that was settled, at least.

"Ain't it just amazin', Mr. Frodo?" Sam asked one stop, burrowing through his pack in search of that evening's rations.

"Is what amazing, Sam?"

The simple gardener looked up, frowning in worry at the other hobbit's listless tone. Mr. Frodo was not doing well, in this place. Still, Sam forged on, trying to lift his master's spirits. "How them elves in Lothlórien seemed to know exactly what we'd be needin' along the way?" he asked, gesturing at the various helpful items he'd just pulled from his pack.

Several times since leaving Galadriel and her people behind, they'd needed or wanted a piece of useful equipment, only to go through their supplies and find that the elves of the golden wood had seemingly anticipated and prepared for their need.

"Not too mention," Sam added, finding the packet he'd been reaching for, "they actually managed to make travel bread what doesn't get stuck in your throat."

Frodo didn't quite manage a full smile as he took the lembas bread Sam passed him, but the corners of his mouth did quirk upward. "Yes, it is amazing, isn't it?"

The longer they walked, and the closer they got to Mordor, the worse Mr. Frodo seemed to fare, and Sam spent more time watching him and worrying than looking around them. Not that there was much worth looking at, anymore, in the nearly-dead land.

What beauty there'd once been had long been twisted or marred, like the now-headless statue of the old king that the orcs had clearly had their fun with. It just seemed so sad and wrong, and there was nothing he could do to coax this place back to health like he could an ailing garden.

But then, there was the head, and there were those flowers, and that sunbeam breaking through all those clouds, and just for a moment, it was like the whole world was saying there'd be hope again, yet. Even Mr. Frodo brightened a little when Sam pointed it out, like he felt it, too.

But then the clouds rolled back together, the light faded, the gold-and-white crown disappeared, and the whole world turned grey again. Mr. Frodo seemed to fade a little bit more, right before his eyes, and turned to trudge on after that slimy little Gollum creature, with Sam plodding after, feeling sick with his helplessness.

Still, he couldn't help one last glance back at the fallen king, at the solemn, graven expression, and the determined wildflowers still blooming, even in this dead place.

The ring was destroyed, Aragorn was now king in Gondor, and the four hobbits were nearly home. Though camped now for the night, the next day's ride would bring them into the Shire, and then it weren't but a day or two more until they were well and truly back where it all began.

Merry and Pippin had laughed and joked their way to sleep some time before, but Frodo and Sam were still awake, looking up into the night and talking quietly, so as not to disturb the two younger hobbits.

Sam shook his head as he took in the sky above, completely unobscured for nearly the first time since their journey began. "I wouldn't say so to Mr. Bilbo's face, of course, but I don't think there's a dragon's treasure anywhere that can match all 'em star-jewels up there. Not a one."

A soft chuckle answered that, followed by silence for a while. Then: "How do you do it, Sam?"

"Do what?" Sam asked, turning to look at Mr. Frodo and finding the other hobbit studying him with an amazed smile.

"Go anywhere, face anything, and still find something beautiful or wonderful? No matter how bad it gets—got. You always did. And here you are, doing it still."

Sam didn't answer at first, thinking. Frodo thought he might've fallen asleep, until he spoke at last: "Well, it's like you and me both said: 'there's good in this world worth fighting for,' and there's plenty of grand stuff to see 'when we remember to look at it'."

Talk dwindled after that, and at last the gardener truly did surrender to sleep, though Frodo remained awake a little while longer, still smiling at his most faithful companion—and friend. "Never change, Samwise Gamgee," he whispered at last, "most wonderful of hobbits."

 **[Line Break]**

 **So, yeah. Little longer this time around, but while 'Sam' and 'Wonder' was an obvious combination, trying to think of a single scene to encompass that was impossible, so you all got a few scenes, instead!**

 **Hopefully, you enjoyed it, and look for Endurance's next chapter tomorrow!**

 **While these aren't song-fics, we did want to keep up the tradition of song recommendations at the end of each chapter, so:**

 **Song: Hold on to Christmas**

 **Artist: 4Him**


	4. Pippin's Joy

**Hi all! Thank you for joining us on day four of our Christmas series! This next chapter focuses on Pippin, who is admittedly the hardest character for me to write for. But he is one of my favorites, so I hope that I did him justice.**

 **Today's song recommendations are- Joy to the World by Pentatonix or Future of Forestry (their Advent Christmas, EP vol. 2- the whole thing is amazing). Also Celtic Woman. Another song is Joyful, Joyful We Adore Thee by Rend Collective and Urban Rescue.**

 **As always, we own nothing. Enjoy!**

Pippin was a jokester, ever joyful, and an unabashed optimist (or so his mother would say). Mr. Bilbo said he was always good for cheering folks up. But as the voices of the elves joined in lament, he felt helpless to be of any comfort.

Everything was... sad. The foggy state of Pippin's mind would not allow him to conjure up any other word to describe the atmosphere around him. While Caras Galadhon was a city of light, the white and blue spheres that illuminated everything seemed muted. The attitudes and postures of his companions- from Frodo's frowns and Boromir's furrowed brow to Aragorn's bent shoulders- screamed sorrow of the deepest kind. Even the liting voices of the elves carried a note of longing and grief for the loss of their loved Mithrandir.

Pippin was not used to sadness. He was a jokester, every joyful, and an unabashed optimist (bolstered greatly by the fact he was never far from Merry, who always had a reassuring word). Mr. Bilbo praised his mischievous nature, saying that he was always good for cheering folks up. But as he struggled to grasp the gloomy nature of the Fellowship's current situation, he certainly did not feel good for much. He felt… helpless.

His own melancholy lead to him separating from the group and wandering the paths of the great city aimlessly. He didn't realize how far he had truly strayed until a melodic voice hailed him.

"You're a long way off from your companions Peregrin. Are you lost?" Pippin looked up to see the lady Galadriel sitting on a stone bench with her husband. The papers beside them indicated that they had been in counsel over some important matter. The kindly looks on the lord and lady's face took him by surprise.

"Many apologies my lady," Pippin stuttered out, with a half bow of respect for his hosts. "I do believe I'm a little lost. But if you'll point me in the direction of my companions, I'll leave you to your, um, important matters."

Celeborn exchanged an amused look with his wife, before pointing to a path paved with stones. "Follow that way and you'll be lead straight to your friends." Pippin gave another bow and a murmured thanks before turning away.

"Hold on to your joy Peregrin Took," the command coming from Galadriel stopped him in his tracks, "you will need it as you continue on this journey."

Pippin felt his brow furrow before he could stop it. "How can I do that my lady? It is my fault that Gandalf is no longer with us. If I hadn't been messing about…"

"Your 'messing about' has nothing to do with you keeping a cheerful nature Pippin. And as for your guilt in the matter, there were forces long at work that lead you and your company into Moria. Gandalf knew this. The fault is not yours."

Pippin stared at her. The lady shook her head, a small smirk playing her lips. "I know this grief that you feel. It is not an easy load to bear. But bear it you shall, Peregrin. Remember, you had many joyful moments with your friend and Gandalf would be the last to have you look at your memories and weep always."

Pippin did not know how to answer, but the lady did not seem to mind. She merely rose, walked the few feet to where he stood and turned him back to the path. "Go to your friends. Those who are living need you more than those who are gone." And Pippin could do little else but obey.

As Pippin approached the fire, he heard his fellow hobbits exchanging stories of Gandalf, and the others listening with rapt attention. He waited until Sam finished his, before situating himself by Merry and starting one of his own.

"Did Merry ever tell you about the time Gandalf led us on a wild goose chase?" Sam snorted, Frodo cracked a smile, and Merry rolled his eyes. The remaining members of the Fellowship looked at Pippin doubtfully.

"No, well let me tell it to you." And he launched himself into a story that soon had the group snickering freely.


	5. Frodo's Family

**ello, everybody; ModernDayBard here! This is another character/prompt combo that just seemed to make sense in my mind, though I found myself intimidated when the time came to write it. Hopefully, you like the end result!**

 **DISCLAIMER: Neither of us owns any of the characters, settings, lore, or cannon events.**

The little hobbit child didn't want to say that he felt forgotten or lost. That would seem ungrateful, and it wasn't entirely true, either. After all, he wasn't lost: he was in his home—or at least, the closest thing he had, now—and he wasn't strictly speaking forgotten, either, it was simply that Brandy Hall was large, rambling, and crowded. Very crowded.

Young Frodo truly did love his mother's (large and loud) family—especially the cousins closest to his age. And he knew they loved him, too, in their own, chaotic and often overwhelming way. But he missed his parents. He missed the times the three of them had in the quiet and peace of their own corner, and the sense of belonging together, just the three of them. They fit in in the larger world, town, etc., but when everything else was stripped away, they had each other.

Except, now, he didn't.

He hadn't for years—had trouble remembering them, now, sometimes—and now he was just another hobbit in Buckland, another little face in Brandy Hall. It was overwhelming for the young Baggins, and very, very lonely at times.

He tried not to think about it, or, at the very least, not to show it. After all, the Brandybuck's didn't _have_ to take him in, and it was nice to have somewhere to call home, even if he didn't always feel like he belonged there.

All the same, the older hobbit now regarding him seemed to sense it, somehow.

This mysterious Mr. Bilbo Baggins (about whom the child had heard some strange stories indeed) was apparently a relative of his father's (and his mother's too, he was later to learn), and seemed to have taken an interest in him. The two chatted for a while, and, upon discovering that they shared the same birthday, Bilbo Baggins made the one offer young Frodo could hardly believe—or refuse.

"You had better come and live with me in Bag End, Frodo my lad, and then we can celebrate our birthday-parties comfortably together."

Later, Frodo never could remember what answer he'd made, exactly, beyond agreeing. All he knew was that, a few days later he was settling into his new room and was being officially adopted as Bilbo's heir.

Thus began a new phase of his life—the happiest one, he would later decide—with days of fun and freedom in the beloved Shire, with a cozy home all his own to come back to in the evening, and the older hobbit waiting there for him (if he hadn't gone out with him), ready with a smile and far-fetched tale. The life of the two bachelor hobbits may have been unusual by Shire-standards, but neither would've traded it for anything.

Even after all had come to pass that the decision to accept Bilbo's offer had set into motion, with all the pain and hardship, the irrevocable changes that the journey brought or wrought, whenever Frodo thought back to that day, that moment, that choice, he knew he would never regret or change it.

He'd come home, and found a family waiting for him, and he wouldn't change either for the world.

 **So, yeah. When 'Family' was added to our list of prompts, Frodo was one of the two characters that came to mind. I know I fall into thinking of him as a solitary character, associating him with Sam most closely and Merry and Pippin a little more loosely, but his family-bond with Bilbo really is key, especially early on in his story; and really, without Bilbo's seemingly spur-of-the-moment decision to take Frodo in and** _ **make**_ **him his family, we wouldn't have the story we know and love.**

 **Hopefully, you enjoyed it, and look for Endurance's next chapter tomorrow!**

 **While these aren't song-fics, we did want to keep up the tradition of song recommendations at the end of each chapter, so:**

 **Song: All I Really Want**

 **Artist: Steven Curtis Chapman**


	6. Have Faith Legolas

**Hi all! Here is a short one-shot for one of my favorite characters. As always we own nothing.**

 **Song Recommendation: Midnight Clear (Love Song)- Chris Tomlin, Winter Snow- Chris Tomlin and Audrey Assad.**

Legolas was a simple elf. Well, simple in the fact that he never put on a pretense. What you saw, was what you got. But in reality, there was nothing simple about his life. He was born a prince to a father that had seen too much war and to a mother who would soon leave Middle-Earth against her great desire to remain. He grew up while Mirkwood was still the Greenwood. But he was barely a millennium when the change started happening. And so he became a leader in an army that was increasingly more isolated to the outside world.

The prince lived in the shadow of his great father. Thranduil was a mighty warrior and a just king. He had won his renown among his people long before the crown was handed to him. But Thranduil's long years had been filled with sorrow, betrayal, and disappointment. Thus, the prince's father never had much faith in anything. Certainly, Thranduil believed in Eru and revered the Valar. To do otherwise was unthinkable. But the king did not hold any unshakeable devotion to the powers that be, much less had any faith that they would act on behalf of those who needed it.

So, Thranduil put his faith in no one but himself, his son, and his people's strength.

But Legolas could not put so much faith in the same things. As a son, he watched his father fight despair. As a warrior, he saw many comrades fall. He watched as cities and settlements were crushed under the foot of evil and saw his people increasingly waiver between hopelessness and renewed determination to beat the evil rising up around them. The prince realized that faith merely in his people and himself would get him nowhere.

It was Mithrandir that changed his mind about the Valar and Eru and undid the years of his father's teachings. The Maia was clearly on an errand from those who watched the world and all of its workings. Why would such a powerful being be dispensed to Middle-Earth, if not for the benefit of its people? Legolas still did not know how things would play out for his people, but he trusted Mithrandir and the Gray Pilgrim trusted the Valar. So, he allowed his faith to be deepened and his purpose renewed. When the Eru allowed for the next part of His music to play out and the Valar decided to act, he would be ready.

More years passed, and Legolas saw many amazing and strange things come to fruition. Isildur's heir was raised up, hobbits came out of the Shire and banded with mortals and immortals alike. A quest was undertaken and Legolas's faith was being rewarded before his very eyes as he watched Sauron's tower fall. When he returned to the restored Greenwood, recovering but still enduring, he felt no regret. And though it would be still longer until his faith was fulfilled, he could rest in the knowledge that what had already come to pass was a promise for the future.


	7. Steward's Snow Day

**Hello, everybody; ModernDayBard here! My explanation for this is simple: like with Sam, there were too many 'little scenes' that popped to mind with this prompt to choose one over the others. Enjoy pure winter fluff!**

 **DISCLAIMER: Neither of us owns any of the characters, settings, lore, or cannon events.**

The city of Minas Tirith placement often shielded it from harsher winters and snowfall, but 'often' is not 'always', as that wintry day was wont to prove.

The first thing nine-year-old Boromir, the Steward's eldest son, knew that morning was that his little brother, Faramir, had pelted into his room and thrown himself on top of the bed (and Boromir), bouncing in sheer delight as he babbled something excitedly. It took the elder brother a half-moment to dig himself far enough out of the (warm) covers to make out what the four-year-old was saying.

"Snow, B'mir! Snow! Snow! Come see!"

Boromir was out of his bed the instant the first word filtered into his mind, dashing to the window and staring out at the white blanket covering the white city. Though the two boys had not seen snow themselves, they'd heard tales enough for the sight to set both to vibrating with excitement. They'd have charges outside, sleep clothes and all, had their mother not entered at that moment to collect them for breakfast.

It was the first time she could remember either child protesting 'having' to eat.

Finduilas watched her younger son eat as quickly as he could, with frequent glances out the window. "Chew, Faramir, the snow will not melt today. You will have time to play."

Obediently, the smaller boy did slow down, but Boromir was slower still—in fact, he was barely picking at his plate. From the look on his face, the steward's wife knew exactly what her eldest had realized: based on the way his pace had slowed on the way to breakfast, he'd realized it before sitting down.

Faramir may have time to play, but he would not.

Finduilas glanced out the window, at the snowy scene that was so rare, here. Boromir was still a child—what was one day of getting to act like it? He'd have so few, in the coming years.

"Boromir, how have your lessons been coming—are you keeping up?"

"Yes mother," came the serious answer. Boromir may not have had a scholarly disposition, but his sense of duty hardly allowed him to fall behind any task his parents set him to.

Finduilas smiled. "Then I think I know what I need you to do today." The serious expression on the young face almost made her laugh, but she kept her mirth hidden just long enough for her surprise: "I need you keep your brother company out-of-doors today. I think you just might be the only one able to keep up with him, in this state."

Disbelief turned to heart-melting surprise and delight as the child nodded emphatically. "Yes, mother!"

Breakfast was finished quickly, after that.

Of course, Finduilas knew better than to think that Boromir alone could keep Faramir out of trouble—in fact, in most of their last misadventures, her more adventurous son had been the instigator, with his brother following devotedly, impressionably, after. She could have asked some of the servants or guards to watch the boys, but the excitement of her children was infectious, thus she took it upon herself to be the one watching them.

And not a moment too soon, as she caught up with them trying to 'borrow' a shield out of the armory that would be big enough for the two of them to ride down the snowy slope of the rear courtyard on. Quickly, she stepped in.

"Boromir, Faramir, that's not what the shields are for. Besides, the metal will get too cold, even with all the layers you are wearing."

"But Faramir wanted to slide!" Boromir protested as she replaced the equipment.

 _I'm sure he did…after you convinced him that he did._ It only took a moment's thought for Finduilas to land on a solution. Gesturing wordlessly for them to follow, she led them to a disused storage room and found some flat, wooden crate lids large enough to hold one small child each.

The compromise was deemed acceptable, and while the flat squares proved a little unwieldy and hard to steer on the slopes, the snow was thick enough to prevent injury, and from the sound of the boy's laughter, the slightly slower speed stole none of the fun.

Boromir was right—this was fun!

For his first few trips down the slope, Faramir had squeezed in front of his brother on the larger of the crate lids, riding down together, but now he had worked up his courage sufficiently enough to ride on his own.

At first, all went well, and he scrambled up the slope (struggling a little with the awkward lid), ready for a second trip. The second ride down, something was different. Perhaps he was on a slightly different part of the hill, perhaps, in his eagerness, the small child sat too far forward on the ill-balanced wooden square. But whatever the cause, he was not yet halfway down the hill when here was a sickening _bump_ and somehow, the lid flipped itself over—on top of him!

There was enough snow, and he was small enough that he didn't fall all the way through to the courtyard beneath. But the top layer of snow was loose here, not yet packed down by other sliding trips, and the rough wood had snagged him, pulling little Faramir with it as it continued its downhill plunge. At last, the terrifying tumble ended in a deep drift that, for all his flailing, the buried little boy couldn't pull himself out of.

But he didn't have to: Boromir was there, having run after him as soon as the crate lid overturned (and fallen a bit of the ways himself), ready to dig him out and pull him up.

The smaller child was hiccupping and shaking, but before tears could begin in earnest, his big brother had pulled him close. "It's okay, Faramir. I'm here—I'm always here."

It was a promise spoken in the earnestness of a child and believed in the innocence of one, for neither could then imagine a time where it wouldn't be true.

There were no more sliding trips after that, but there was still plenty of fun to be had (and plenty of energy to burn off once Faramir had recovered his good spirits).

The brothers had been pelting each other with snowballs for a few minutes now—their latest game—and neither noticed their father crossing the courtyard, preoccupied with whatever serious thoughts the Steward of Gondor was beset with that day. And neither did Denethor really take note of what the boys were playing…

Until a stray snowball struck his face, halting him where he stood.

"I'm sorry father," his eldest spoke quickly as he turned to take in the scene. "That was my throw."

Denethor surveyed the courtyard before speaking. The boys stood, facing each other, Boromir standing only a few feet away form Denethor, indicating he would've been the one with his back to the steward—not to mention he still held a forgotten snowball in hand, while his younger brother, facing the walkway, was empty-handed (and not yet a sure aim). "Was it truly, my son?"

But the elder boy did not back down, even as he qualified his blatant lie. "The game was my idea, father."

"I see." Denethor turned his unreadable gaze on the smaller child. "Faramir?"

"Yes, father?" the tiny voice answered.

"I would like to propose an alliance, then. If you should like a demonstration of what I can bring to such an arrangement—"

Before either confused child could answer, Denethor, Steward of Gondor, had stooped, formed a snowball of his own, and thrown it at Boromir in a single motion. Boromir gaped in surprised, then laughed in delight, even as Faramir, apparently having accepted their fathers offer, also launched his next attack.

Boromir stumbled back, now beset from two sides, but still laughing. "No fair! No fair!" he protested between gasps and giggles, even as he tried to return fire, struggling to decide which to target.

"Charge!" to the surprise of all three, it was Finduilas who then entered the fray to balance the terms of engagement, joining her eldest son.

Sheer chaos—cut through with the laughter of all four—soon reigned as the alliances constantly switched around, and the mock-battle soon devolved into a free-for-all and a flurry of snow.

After the confusion of the snowball fight had faded into helpless giggling, but before the time had come to go inside for dinner, Finduilas proposed another game for the four: rolling huge boulders of snow, packing and stacking them into the forms of men.

Boromir had been a little disappointed he could not 'borrow' equipment to outfit them as citadel guards (she was going to have to keep an eye on him around those store rooms in the future—if the smallest swords or shields went missing, she may have an idea of where to look), but Finduilas pointed out certain deadfall branches resembled certain weapons, so they had to decide which were the spearmen, the swordsmen, and so on.

As Boromir sought out more branches for arms (and arms—they had to hold their gear somehow, she reminded him), she turned in time to note an exchange between her husband and youngest son.

"They're not right."

Denethor looked at the small boy and his troubled expression. "We'll have to imagine the armor, my son. The metal would rust out here."

"They don't have faces," Faramir pointed out, frowning.

Denethor scooped up some loose pebbles from the ground and crossed to the nearest figure, placing two for eyes, one for a nose, and using the rest to mark out a line that may have been a mouth. He turned to see Faramir's expression had cleared a little, and the boy had also picked up some loose stones, only to realize he was too short to reach any of the heads.

Well, there was an easy solution to that: picking the small child up, he held him at eye-level to the snow piles, letting him give them all faces.

Finduilas smiled, grateful her husband had decided to stay outside with them—this would be a day they'd all treasure in memory, she knew.

But even the best of days must end sometime, giving way to the peace of a winter's night.

The steward's family rested by the fireside after a warm meal, the two boys sprawled out on the floor, playing with some small figurines while their parents claimed the chairs closest to the cheerful blaze, watching with contented smiles.

Predictably enough, it was the youngest that surrendered first to sleep, leaning up close to his big brother, who wordlessly grabbed a nearby blanket to wrap around the slumbering child.

As peace likewise wrapped around the family, Finduilas could only hope that, whatever darkness the future held, the four of them would have enough days like today to help them hold on to the light.

 **So, yeah. My longest one so far, but I couldn't resist—we never get to see this family at their best in either books or film, and we don't even really get to see the brothers be brothers, so I wanted to give them something happy in this season of joy (plus, I just love reading fluffy stories with Boromir and Faramir as kids, so I thought I'd try to write one)!**

 **Hopefully, you enjoyed it, and look for Endurance's next chapter tomorrow!**

 **And since this is my final chapter in the story, have a Merry Christmas, everybody!**

 **While these aren't song-fics, we did want to keep up the tradition of song recommendations at the end of each chapter, so:**

 **Song: Peppermint Winter**

 **Artist: Owl City**

 **Song: It's Christmas Day**

 **Artist: Family Force 5**

 **(Have two—I couldn't decide!)**


	8. Be at Peace Estel

**Hey there! It's hard to believe that Christmas is almost here. I hope that you all have been enjoying these little stories. It's been nice having something to write about. As always we own nothing.**

 **Today's song recommendation is I Heard the Bells on Christmas Day by Frank Sinatra. Casting Crowns also has a good version.**

Peace. Sure Aragorn knew what the word meant, but knowing something and experiencing what you know are often times two different things. So it was with Aragorn.

Aragorn was born in a time of war. His time as Estel in Rivendell was not free of conflict and he was trained from the time he arrived to be a warrior. From the time he entered his majority and joined his father's people he was entrenched in skirmishes, intrigues, and the never-ending battle against the darkness. Whatever moments of peace he earned were fleeting and hardly worth mentioning. And now... now he found himself king to a war-torn nation and was tasked with bringing them into a time of peace.

Well, almost a king. The coronation was not until tomorrow. But Aragorn was restless. Full of doubt and feeling ill at ease after having to look over his shoulder for the past year, sleep was not coming easily to him. So, his allowed his feet to wander until he came to the White Tree.

The ancient tree stood tall, it's grayish-white twisting trunk moved upward about nine feet before splitting off into many branches. It stood out against the dark blue sky and the thousands of shining stars above. There was something so . . . humbling about observing something that had been standing in the city long before he was born.

"Beautiful night isn't it?" Aragorn jumped slightly at the sound of Gandalf's voice behind him. "It's hard to believe that only a few weeks ago the air was filled with smoke and ash."

The soon king nodded. "It is indeed difficult." The Maiar stared long and hard at his friend, watching as the man shifted his weight and averted his eyes back to the tree.

"You are troubled Estel," Gandalf stated in Sindarin. Aragorn chuckled and shook his head. Gandalf only switched to addressing him in elvish when the matter was serious.

"Yes," he admitted, "I am troubled. How am I to lead these people? There is so much hurt here and I. . ."

"You are the one that has been chosen, my friend." The interruption brought Aragon's attention back to his companion. Under the night sky, the white robes that the Maiar now bore stood out as starkly as the great tree. And Gandalf seemed no less ancient in that moment. Still, Aragorn shook his head and scoffed.

"Chosen. And that is supposed to make me feel better?" The man turned on his heel and stalked over to a stone bench to sit. The white wizard sighed, shook his head, and strode over to join him. Estel was not getting away that easy.

"Yes, it is. The time for riddles is gone Estel, so I will speak to you plainly. You have been raised among the elves. You know that Illuvatar has, since before time began, shaped the Music according to his will. Nothing that has been, is, or will be has taken place outside of his sight."

The man's shoulder's drooped slightly as his head met his hands. Mithrandir's compassion was stirred and he lifted a hand to his companion's back. "Be at peace Estel. You are the one that has been raised up for this task and if you seek to walk in the ways of the One who sees and knows you, you will not fail."

Warmth filled Aragorn's body as these words were spoken over him. He looked to his friend to find him staring in earnest, as if willing the mortal to understand. Words seemed insufficient at this moment, so he merely nodded. Gandalf returned the nod and with a final squeeze to Aragorn's shoulder, he left as silently as he came.

Aragorn took a deep breath and let it out slowly. Standing he turned to face the White Tree again. The enduring tree was something of a comfort at that moment. If a tree and a city had been kept safe according to Illuvatar's will, then how much more so would he? The weight of tomorrow felt a little lighter.

And so, his held head high and his heart filled with renewed purpose, feeling secure and at peace for the first time in a very long while, he headed back into the large castle that would now be his home.


	9. Gimil’s Tradition

Hello, everybody; ModernDayBard here! I didn't really know where this chapter was going until about halfway through writing it, but once I did, it fell together pretty easily. Hopefully, you think it turned out!

DISCLAIMER: Neither of us owns any of the characters, settings, lore, or cannon events.

To Glóin went the honor of being the first in Thorin's company to become a father, and his son, Gimli, had the honor of being the first dwarf-child born in the Lonely Mountain after the dwarves reclaimed it from Smaug.

Some may have been tempted to think that said dual honors lay pressure on Glóin to see that his son was reared in all the traditions and lore of their people; those who had known him long, though, would counter with it would have been strange indeed for Glóin to have done otherwise, as steeped in their history as he was (and a part of it, too). To either party, Glóin would have made the same answer: in the end, he wasn't given much of a choice by his son's burning curiosity and passion for the tales and kingdoms of the dwarves.

Glóin had resolved early on to tell his son the truth of the stories: the good with the bad, the tragedy with the triumph, the fall as well as the rise. Some, like the tales of the Lonely Mountain, came back to a good end—reclamation, homecoming. But others, like Moria, hung unfinished, unresolved, for the dwarves would never willingly let go anything that had been theirs, though they could not take it back at that time.

Glóin frowned. It was unlike Gimli to be late keeping any promise he had made, even in the somewhat flighty period of a dwarf's life as they entered their thirties, transitioning away form childhood, but not yet fully grown into maturity.

Gimli would've been home by now, as he had said he would be if he knew the time, so he must've lost track of the hour. He was not yet dedicated enough to his craft for that to be what stole his attention away; in fact, the only thing that could so consume him, even still, was—

Glóin smiled. He knew where his son was.

There lies his crown in waters deep,

'Till Durin wakes again from sleep…

Glóin stood, waiting, at the entrance to the chamber as the song reached its end, unable to deny the stirring in his soul as the assembled voices rang out the old song of Moria, or the twinge of something deep and nameless at the sight of his son among Balin's colonists.

The preparations for Moria's colonization were finished and Balin and his followers would depart in a few days' time; in the meantime, their evenings were spent recounting the glories of the kingdom they would soon set out to reclaim. Where else would a young dwarf so steeped in the history of his people spend his free moments?

Gimli caught his father's eye from the door and quietly excused himself from the honored company.

"My apologies, father," he said quietly once the chamber was a ways behind them, only the echoes of the next song audible. "I did not mean to get so distracted."

"I know, my son, I know."

Silence lasted until they turned another corner and the younger dwarf could not contain his question any longer. "Do you think I shall ever see Khazad-dûm?"

Glóin could not hep a smile at his son's preference for the old name over the grim reminder of 'Moria,' but the smile fell as he wondered, not for the first time, if he was being selfish for not allowing his son to go with Blain, as he so clearly desired. But, no—Gimli was young yet, and still early in his training as both warrior and craftsman, while Balin needed skilled hands and fierce fighters in the early days of the colony. Once they were more fully established, in several decade's time, then they would need other settlers to round out their numbers. By then, surely Gimli would be ready to go—and Glóin would be ready to let him.

"I don't think there is a power under mountain or above it that could stop you, when the day comes," he answered at last, and it seemed to content Gimli, if the smile that came at the words was any indication.

That night, Glóin stayed up later than his son, staring into the fire, still hearing the old song in a young voice:

…In Moria, in Khazad-dûm…

Someday, my son, but not yet.

So, yeah. I've spent a lot of time this year listening to Peter Hollens' album where he covers a lot of LOR songs, and some of my favorites are the dwarves' songs, particularly 'Song of Durin,' which is the one Gimli sings when the fellowship in Moria, in the books. There's just something about the sound of it that evokes this ancient people steeped in their traditions, lore, and history, so connecting Gimli to the 'tradition' prompt was a no-brainer for me, and I was eager to try it out!

Hopefully, you enjoyed it, and look for Endurance's next chapter tomorrow!

[Line Break]

While these aren't song-fics, we did want to keep up the tradition of song recommendations at the end of each chapter, so:

Song: O Come, O Come Emmanuel

Artist: Peter Hollens


	10. A Time to Celebrate

**Hi Everyone! So, this was supposed to go up yesterday. But my family decided that we were going to celebrate Christmas a day early, so… yeah life got a little busy. But Modern and I just want to say thank you for reading our stories this year. We hope they gave you something extra to smile about this holiday season. We wish you a very Happy Christmas and a joyous New Year.**

 **Song Recommendations- Christmas Morning by Peter Mayer, Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas by Johnnyswim, The Light of Christmas Morn by Celtic Woman**

 **As always, we own nothing.**

It had been many years since the great halls of Minas Tirith had heard the joyous ring of laughter and abundant swells of music. But the evening of King Aragorn II's coronation saw a feast unlike anything in the memory of the oldest person in the city. Not only was there light and laughter, but the hall was filled with free folk of all kinds from every part of Middle-Earth.

Sitting at the head of the hall was the king himself, on his right was his beloved Arwen with her family and on his left, was the members of the Fellowship still living. Well, those who weren't dancing.

Gandalf looked down to see all of the hobbits either chatting happily away with their various companions or dancing. Gimli had dragged Legolas to a group of dwarves who appeared to be having a very animated discussion- the elf's amusement was shown only by a small upturn of the lips and a few shakes of the head. Aragon finally got down from his table and was making rounds with Arwen, speaking encouragement to various nobles. 

"A happy gathering," the voice of the Lord of Rivendell brought Gandalf out of his observant state.

The Maia gave his old friend a soft smile. "Indeed it is, and it is well needed after everything that has taken place, don't you think?" The elf nodded. They continued observing the merriment in silence, letting the feelings of contentment and hope wash over them.

"Light has come again into the world of Men," Elrond pronounced. "You were right to not lose hope in them."

Gandalf shook his head. "I had faith in them only because I knew they had a greater role yet to play, because I knew Eru had things yet for them to accomplish." The great lord looked a bit sheepish, but Gandalf merely patted him on the shoulder and beckoned to the spot where Aragorn was dancing with his lady. "Go, claim your daughter for a dance my friend. You played a role in bringing this all about, enjoy this day of victory." With a nod and a smile, Elrond complied and made his way into the crowd. 

The feast lasted well into the night, the celebration and lightheartedness breaking apart the despair and dispelling the sadness of the last generation. The joy felt by all that night ushered in a new age and a new hope to accompany it.

 **Short and sweet. Blessings to one and all! – Endurance**


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